


To Wait for the Touch of Your Hand

by PalacesAndPines



Series: The Nearest Thing to Heaven [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cross-Generation Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hermione is a bit hot and bothered, Kissing and Conversation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Poetry and Dancing, Post-War, Remus is a Gentleman, Romance, Sexual frustration like woah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PalacesAndPines/pseuds/PalacesAndPines
Summary: Hermione moved to sit up on the couch, running her fingers through her hair in an effort to tame it. “I can’t believe you tricked me into liking the Romantics.” She looked down as she readjusted her shirt. It was difficult to remain coy and composed when he had dragged such obscene sounds from her throat minutes before. She reached for the horrible book on the floor and placed it on the table in front of them. When she finally turned to face him, he was slouched against the cushions, his top buttons still undone, his chest rising and falling as he steadied his breath.“I can be quite convincing, it seems,”





	To Wait for the Touch of Your Hand

Hermione Granger stood outside the Lupin Cottage. The grass was damp beneath her feet from the recent rainfall, and the sun warmed her back as she gripped the knocker in her hand and knocked twice.

The door flung open quickly, and revealed Remus Lupin, sleeves rolled up, top button undone, wish a dish towel casually thrown over his shoulder.

After much previous deliberation about how much affection she ought to show, Hermione jumped up onto her toes so that she might throw her arms around him and kiss him soundly on the mouth.

It had been nearly two months since the evening of their first date, and they had seen little of each other as she finished up classes and exams. They had relied heavily on letters; she told him of her classes and her job prospects, he told her of his preparations for returning to his teaching position in the fall. There were times, largely around the full moon, when she had sensed his guilt still lingered, and it was then she took extra care to tell how she missed him and longed to see him, sometimes writing a shy and but honest _l love you_ above her signed name at the bottom of the page. They traded their favorite bits of verse and prose back and forth, and were she to find something new and interesting in the library, he was the first person she told. She would trace the tall slant of his printed letters with her finger as she read them, and she would often look up to see Ginny smiling smugly beside her.

They had managed to meet a few times in Hogsmeade at a small rundown sandwich shop far from where the rest of the students roamed. Sometimes they sat and talked for hours, other times they were content to sit quietly, she would study for whatever exam was next, and he would read from whatever book he had brought along with him. His hand would often rest on hers on the little shaky table where their lunches and drinks sat, and one would occasionally look up at the other to smile or comment on a passage.

On the last of their Hogsmeade encounters, they had lingered outside the shop longer than usual, knowing it would be the last time they would see each other for over two weeks. He had pulled her to the side of the restaurant, pressed her up against the brick wall of the alley, and kissed her until she was a mess of gasps and quivering limbs. When he pulled away from her he had swallowed thickly before telling her he loved her, the words tripping over his tongue. 

It was the first time she had heard the words come out of his mouth, and it was all she could do to not pull him back to her in the shadowy nook. She returned the sentiment but not before pressing a kiss to his roughened cheek, and squeezing his hand lightly.

She stood at the entrance of his home and pulled back from his lips with a smile.

“Hello.”

“Hello.” He leaned against the frame of the door, an eyebrow raised. “You’ve paid the toll, it seems. Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, I would, thank you.” Hermione walked up over the threshold only to be assaulted by an obscenely good smell coming from the kitchen. She walked towards it. “It smells incredible."

He gave her a smile. “You don’t think I would offer to cook for you if I was rubbish, now do you?”

“Well of course not! It’s only that you’ve mentioned so many times how rubbish you are at potions, and I guess I thought cooking was rather similar.”

He scoffed. “Cooking is _nothing_ like potions. It’s not nearly as exact. It’s fun too. I suppose that’s the major difference.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest and insist that potions was, indeed, _fun,_ but the look on Remus’ face informed her that he was baiting her, so she closed it instead and gave him an indignant look, before peering into the bubbling pot on the stove. “What are we having, then?”

“Pasta and chicken and vegetables, all in the famous Lupin family sauce.” He said it with such a prideful look that she couldn’t help but snicker.

“Famous Lupin Family Sauce?” She took a step towards him as he crossed his arms.

“Yes. I’ll have you know that it’s been in the family for four generations. I’m most secretive about who I share it with, you know. In fact, there’s only two copies of the recipe. I have one, and the other is buried within the deepest parts of the Department of Mysteries.”

Her features beamed as she struggled not to laugh. She closed the distance between them and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You’re ridiculous. I’ll set the table.”

Remus watched her as she flitted about his kitchen, opening the cabinet and drawers until she found what she required and setting the little kitchen table in the corner. Outside, it was the golden hour, and light poured in from the ivory curtains, illuminating her wild tresses as she went about folding napkins and placing forks with a precision that made him smile. By the time she had fetched the wine and the glasses, he was dolling out portions onto two plates, taking far more care with the presentation than he normally would.

He sat across from her and lit the candle between them before sitting down. He went about cutting his food, glancing up on occasion to watch her do the same and waiting for her to bring the fork to her lips. When she finally did, she gave a sigh that allowed him to relax a bit in his chair and beginning eating the meal himself.

“Ah, how is it? Do you like it?” he fiddled with his napkin, despite her sound of approval.

“You know I do.” She shook her head a little, “thank you, Remus, it’s wonderful.”  


The candle flickered between them as he reached his hand across the table to briefly touch hers. 

“You’re most welcome, love.”

Hermione’s face grew hot at his direct gaze and endearment. Her mouth went dry momentarily as her stomach swooped, and she reached for the glass of wine beside her plate. 

There was silence for a few moments as they ate, the flavors sweet and savory swirling in her mouth, and as his words continued to ring in her ears. She was so taken that she did not hear him ask her about her move to Harry and Ron’s flat, or her job applications. She looked up dazed, and asked _‘what’_ with her mouth still half full. He gave her such a look of amused adoration she nearly melted on the spot. They spoke for a long while as the candle melted down between them and the light outside dwindled.

When they finished, she helped him with the dishes. He washed them and handed each dish and glass to her and she dried them before reaching up to the cabinet to put them away. Their elbows brushed against each other and her fingers grazed his every time he handed her a dish or a plate and it seemed to her profoundly intimate in a way; to be with him in his kitchen, to share a meal, to grow warm at the merest brush of fingertips.

She then followed him into the parlor. The sun had set and the windows were now dark, but the fire in the corner offered light that bathed the room in a comfortable glow. She settled on the couch beside him, her legs tucked under her as he shifted to face her, his knee bumping hers. 

He took her hand.

“I missed you.” His voice was a mere murmur, a soft sound against the crackling of flames.

“I missed you too.” Her fingers trailed across his knuckles, thinking about how many letters his hand had written her in the last few months. She pictured his fingers taught as he wrote furiously on his desk, the side of his hand smeared with ink. She smiled and thought of the neatly organized box of ink and parchment and Remus Lupin’s words under her bed. When she rested her head against the couch cushions to find his eyes, he had a peculiar look on his face, a sort of pensive smile that made her want to trace and kiss the contours of his face in a way she hadn’t thought to do before. “What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing, it’s nothing, really.” Her brow furrowed a bit, concerned at his dismissal. “It’s only, I’ve had such a strange feeling.”

“Oh?”

“I’m quite happy, just now. Not to say I haven’t been happy, because I have, for months now. It’s only it still catches me unawares sometimes, it’s the acknowledgement of the feeling, I suppose.”

“Remus –” a familiar ache settled somewhere between her throat and her heart.

“It’s not just contentment. It’s so much more, isn’t it? It lingers and thrives and I feel as if my chest is cavity not nearly big enough for it all. It’s near elation.” She took her hand and placed it above his heart, feeling the beat beneath her palm. The heat of his skin was no match for the worn linen of his shirt, and his warmth seemed to travel from his chest to her fingertips up her arm and down her torso to the top of her head and the tips of her toes. She shifted on the couch, unsure of what to say. Surely, she could have said a million things, but she pressed her lips to his instead, allowing her hand to travel up his chest until it joined her other behind his neck. 

She felt his tongue tease her mouth, and she before raised herself on shaky knees to straddle his lap. Any nervousness she initially felt in executing such a move was soon put at ease when she heard him gasp her name and pull her close.

His hands began by cupping her face and running through her hair, but as they continued, he found them rather keen to wander as she pressed her soft body against his. Fingers travelled down her back and gripped her hips as her tongue moved against his. He trailed kisses down her jaw, relishing her small sounds of pleasure as he reached her neck, sucking gently at her pulse point. The longer they went on, the more she squirmed in his lap, and the more he was able to drag the loveliest of sounds from her throat. He had not intended for the night to progress as it had, and he knew he would undoubtedly have to pull himself away before they rushed into anything more, but _Merlin’s beard she was lovely._ He believed he had told her so just in the span of five minutes. Once? Twice? He had lost count of the endearments he had called her quite some time before.

“Remus…” her voice was a mere gasp as she spoke above her labored breathing, and he moaned against her neck. “Remus.” Her voice was clearer this time, and her hand, which had been tangled in his hair, made its way to his chest, and gently pushed him back. He went rigid.

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—too much, too fast…” he blundered over the words has he tried to slow his heart rate.

She gave him a stern look, and crossed her arms. “Remus Lupin, I’ll have none of that. If you recall it was I who climbed into your lap to snog you senseless, and if you see fit to apologize for reciprocating, then I’ll just have to refrain from starting such endeavors in the future.”

He relaxed against the cushions and smiled before lightly tapping his finger to her nose.

“Bossy.” 

“You like it.”

He did.

She picked up one of his hands and ran her fingers over the sparse hair and the faded scars. She gave it a light squeeze before gathering her courage and looking at him. “I have something to tell you.” She bit her lip, and watched as his face became concerned. “It’s nothing really, it doesn’t change anything, but I figured you should know, since we—since we’re together.”

“Hermione…” the hand not between hers cupped her cheek and she leaned into his touch.

“I haven’t ever—that is to say, my experiences in intimacy end rather abruptly with snogging.” She briefly recalled Viktor’s attempt at groping her breast, but the experience resembled little more than a crushing handshake and she pushed it aside.

“Oh.” She watched as his eyes fell to his hand between hers.

“Like I said, it really doesn’t matter!” she rushed on. “Ginny could give you lectures on how it’s only a social construct, and really, most of the boys at school are _idiots,_ so my options were rather limited, and then there was a war, and I was stuck in a tent with Harry and Ron and nothing was ever going to happen there, and even then, I was only thinking about you so—”

He cut her off with a kiss and she melted into him. He pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. “You talk rather a lot, has anyone ever told you?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

His thumb traced her lower lip, made pink and swollen from his kisses. “Hm. I find it rather endearing.” He sighed then and re-adjusted them so that she sat back on the couch, with her legs draped over his. She gave a small sigh of protest, her body cold where he no longer held her. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “Thank you for telling me. You’re right, it doesn’t matter, not really.” He let out a small breath. “But, regardless of either of our experiences, I do think we shouldn’t go rushing into anything—anything physical.”

She frowned. “You’re just saying that because of what I just told you! Because I’m—”

“No, I’m not. I admit, I’m keen to wait for the sake of my conscience, but it’s more than that.” 

He shifted so he could more easily look at her. She found it very difficult to be cross with him when his eyes were so patient and kind and she resented him for it. “Listen, most of the time we’ve been together we’ve been apart. You’re out of school now and we have the luxury of seeing each other when we like. We’ve had feelings for each other for some time now, and I recognize that the physical aspect of our relationship is bound to progress rather quickly, but let’s take our time. Perhaps a few more snogging sessions before I take you to bed, hm?” He brushed a wild strand of hair out of the way so he could cup her face.

His words made heat pool deep within her stomach and a blush rise to her cheeks. “Alright. But I do want that. I do want… you…” her face was so red she thought it might catch flame and she found it nearly impossible to utter her confession and look at him at the same time.

“I want that too. Very much. Something I’m afraid you’ll become increasingly aware of the more you make habit of—how did you put it? — ‘climbing into my lap and snogging me senseless.’” 

Her blush continued to rage, but she smiled a little then, just as he leaned over to kiss her forehead. His gaze was direct, and just as she thought he was going to press kisses to her jaw and her neck in a way that made her boneless, his lips hovered above her ear instead. “Hot chocolate?”

He was truly wicked. She tried to give him a look of cold indifference as she murmured “sure,” but knew she failed in doing so. She heard him chuckle his way to the kitchen.

 

Despite his insistence that they take things slowly, Remus found himself struggling to do just that. They went to restaurants and bookshops, and took walks in the park in an effort to keep the physical aspect of their relationship at bay, but two weeks later they were back on his couch in yet another compromising position. What had started out as a lazy Sunday reading in his parlor with tea and books between them had ended up rather differently when he had paused and read aloud from an old dog-eared book of Romantic poetry. He had somehow ended up on top of her, sliding his tongue against hers and pressing their hips together. She sighed against his mouth as his hand, tentative and gentle, traced lines across her stomach and her back, skimming the underwire of her bra through her shirt. He found himself minutes later with the top buttons of his shirt undone and his mouth nipping at her clavicle, as his trousers became increasingly uncomfortable.

There was a thud, and he jumped up and away from her, pulling himself up to sit on his heels. Through his fogged-up reading glasses he could see the book of poetry on the floor where it had tumbled unceremoniously from the couch. He groaned and blamed the Romantics.

_Fucking Byron._

“We should… stop.” He tried to catch his breath, a task nearly impossible to do as he gazed down at the girl who had propped herself up on her elbows. Her hair was wild and her shirt was rumpled with the collar pushed down from where he had been kissing her moments before. 

She looked thoroughly ravished.

Hermione moved to sit up on the couch, running her fingers through her hair in an effort to tame it. “I can’t believe you tricked me into liking the Romantics.” She looked down as she readjusted her shirt. It was difficult to remain coy and composed when he had dragged such obscene sounds from her throat minutes before. She reached for the horrible book on the floor and placed it on the table in front of them. When she finally turned to face him, he was slouched against the cushions, his top buttons still undone, his chest rising and falling as he steadied his breath.

“I can be quite convincing, it seems.” Hermione gave a huff. She felt hot and frustrated in a way she was wholly unaccustomed to, and her clothes suddenly felt uncomfortably restraining.

She looked down again at her rumpled appearance. “Yeats would have never left me in such a state.”

Remus sat up and quirked an eyebrow. “What if _I_ read you Yeats?”

The thought of the man next to her reading verse again, her favorite verse, nonetheless, made her stomach somersault. She gave him a stern look, “Remus Lupin, you’ll do no such thing!”

He chuckled and scooted closer. “No? I have the complete works somewhere kicking around…” he smirked as he bent down to kiss her again, but he stopped just short of her mouth.

“What is it?” He was looking at her a rather sheepishly as he pulled back and ran a hand through his hair. “Remus?”

“Oh dear, I may have ah—that is to say—I’m afraid I’ve left a bit of a mark.” He gestured vaguely at her neck. “Terribly sorry, I’ll just ah—take care of that, shall I?” He removed his wand from his pocket, and lifting her chin up he pointed the tip to the small pink splotch he had left behind. Before he could cast the cover-up charm, he heard a strange sound come from her mouth and looked up at her. “Are you—are you _laughing?_ ”

“No!”

“You are!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just the last person who pointed a wand at my neck was Dolohov, and it was under rather different circumstances.”

“Well, I should hope so, I hardly want to think about that horrid creature with his mouth on your neck.”

Her laughter subsided enough for her to make a sound of disgust, but that only caused him to chuckle himself. “Stay still for a second.”

Wordlessly the mark faded from her skin, and he watched as she brought a finger to where his wand had been moments before. She lifted her chin again for him to inspect. “Am I respectable again?” He brought her head down so that he could press a light kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m afraid so.”

 

Hermione was still reeling from their encounter days later. Ginny sat on her bed while Hermione lay on her back beside her, gesturing wildly. Harry and Ron were out training, and the two had spent the better part of the day together ever since that morning when Ginny had walked into the kitchen around eleven and informed her friend that she looked a “a bit shite.”

Hermione, who had been cleaning the flat all morning to distract herself, informed her friend that she had slept poorly due to dreams, a mistake, she realized, in retrospect.

“Dolohov or Bellatrix this time?” Ginny had asked, pouring herself an obscenely large cup of coffee.

Hermione paused. “Neither…”

“Oh shite, Greyback?”

“Ah, no, actually.” Hermione averted eye contact as she went about wiping down the counters. Her eyes suddenly glued to a stubborn spot she had been over with the rag at least five times. “I’m afraid it wasn’t that kind of dream.”

“Oh. Oh.” Ginny snorted into her cup. “I get it now.”

Hermione glared daggers.

“Hey, look, no shame in being a bit hot and bothered, you know! I’ve been there. Everyone’s been there.”

“I’m not – _that._ ”

“Mmmhmm. Sure. I take it you and Remus haven’t done the deed yet, then?”

Hermione lifted her chin and began organizing the silverware. “No, we haven’t, not that it’s any of _your_ business.” 

She felt guilty the minute the words left her mouth. Ginny had been nothing but kind and supportive. She finished piling the spoons and turned to her friend. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. You’re right. I am a bit… a bit frustrated.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Not to worry.” She stepped forward and nudged her friend’s arm before placing her mug in the sink. “I may not be able to offer you what Remus can, but I can offer you half my stash of chocolate frogs. Chocolate is second only to sex you know. Terry Boot had to buy out the cart on the express when he lost a bet involving tripe. Details aren’t important.” She grabbed Hermione’s arm and began to pull her out of the kitchen when the brunette protested. “Come on, then.”

“But the kitchen!”

Ginny rolled her eyes and with a flick of her wand, the rest of the silverware organized itself, the cupboards were wiped and closed, and even the stubborn spot on the counter faded from view.

Despite her insistence that she would not “spill” Hermione soon found herself defenseless to the charm and questioning of Ginny Weasley. An hour later she was on her back, upstairs in Ginny’s room. Chocolate frog wrappers were scattered about the bed covers.

She glossed over the details of their little intimacies, leaving out the details of his talented tongue and the way his hands felt as they roamed over her body. He was keen to wait, she explained, and if she was honest, his hesitancy made her love him all the more. But it was also driving her mad.

Ginny leaned back against the headboard and huffed out a breath. “Damn. I’d be going mad too.” She paused. “You could try a striptease of sorts.”

“Ginny!”

“Fine, fine. Just trying to help!”

“I’m perfectly happy waiting. I’ve just never – never felt this kind of _agitation_ before.”

Her dream, she told Ginny, had involved her, and him, and his desk. She had sat on the top by his quill and his notes while he loomed above her kissing and touching and whispering sweet words in her ear. Every time they had managed to tear a piece of clothing from the others body, a new shirt or cardigan or pair of trousers would appear. As they had kissed and touched in desperation, books fell from the sky like rain, pages fluttering around them with the thud of hardcovers hitting the desk and the hardwood floor.

It felt odd at first, to recount such an intimate dream, but it felt good to vent, and she felt that, since it hadn’t actually happened, Remus’ privacy was safe.

Ginny shook her head. “Well, I’d say your dream is pretty straightforward. You need it _bad,_ ‘Mione.” She smirked. “The desk though, that’s quite steamy.” Hermione groaned. “Not sure about the books though, that’s a bit odd.” Hermione sighed, and thought briefly of the book of Romantics that had tumbled to the floor during her last lustful encounter. Her cheeks burned.

Ginny smiled. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know. It’s perfectly normal. Besides, it’s pretty tame for a sex dream.” She shrugged. “I like seeing this side of you. It’s a nice reminder that you’re human too.”

Hermione rolled over onto her stomach to look her friend in the eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing! It’s just, you’re so diligent and practical and poised. It’s nice to know you have a breaking point, too.” Ginny nibbled at the last remaining foot of her chocolate frog. “Besides, it’s nice to hear another girl’s point of view. The only other sex dreams I’ve been told about were Luna’s, and those warranted an analysis I’m just not cut out for.”

Hermione laughed a little, falling forward onto the bed.

“How long has it been, anyway? Since you’re first date?”

“It’ll be two months on Friday.”

“Two- _bloody_ -months?” Ginny gaped. “Merciful Merlin, maybe you aren’t human.”

“Well, we were apart for most of it!”

“All the more reason to jump each other’s bones!”

“Ginny!”

The redhead grew pensive as she leaned forward. “Listen, he’s got to be losing his _mind._ My guess is he makes a move on Friday. If he doesn’t, make the move yourself. My guess is he’s so tightly wound all you’d have to do look at him and he’d have you pressed up against the nearest wall with his --”

“Shhh!” Downstairs the boys had arrived home for lunch, and Hermione hopped of the bed to meet them.

Ginny followed her and called after her friend as she went down the stairs. “I want details when it happens, Granger!”

Hermione responded without looking back, “You won’t receive a single one!”

Ginny smiled and shook her head, bounding down the stairs two at a time.

 

On Friday evening, Remus Lupin arrived at the small flat outside Wizarding London and knocked twice before the door was flung open. Hermione stood in the entrance, her eyes bright and her smile wide. The pale blue sundress she wore accentuated her figure in a way he was not accustomed to seeing, and his mouth went dry.

He took her to dinner, the same place they had been two months before, with the bookstore attached. The restaurant seemed unaltered as it always did, and the only signs that time had indeed passed were the flowers blooming in the window boxes and evening sky, which was still light, unlike the darker evening sky of two months prior.

They sat and ate and talked, and Remus grew warm as he watched her ramble on between bites and sips of wine. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair, wild as ever, would occasionally slip from where a she had tucked a strand behind her ear. Her bare shoulders were spotted with freckles, just as her nose and cheeks were, and Remus’ eyes roved over the exposed skin. He longed to kiss each spot, to ease the straps of her garment off her shoulders and run his hands over every piece of newly exposed skin. His desire for her had been a continually creeping thing the past few months, and gazing at her now, he considered his insistence they wait to make love more a masochistic tendency than the romantic gesture of a gentleman.

Her cheeks were flushed as she looked at him, and he wondered if it was the sultry night air, or his direct gaze that made her blush. Perhaps it was something else altogether.

They left the restaurant in silence, and Hermione clutched to him tighter than usual as they apparated back to his flat. When they arrived in the middle of his living room, she stayed in his arms, pressed firmly against him, eyes dark beneath the flutter of her eyelashes. He held her waist in his hands, and he imagined how easy it would be pull her closer still, to kiss her, to dance slowly with her body pressed to his. The image of a dance sparked his memory and he dropped his hands, and stepped back.

“Hot chocolate?”

She looked disappointed at his departure from her arms but smiled all the same. “Yes, alright.”

When he brought her a steaming mug minutes later, she was curled up on his couch. She moved to sit close as he sat beside her, her bent knee brushing his thigh.

The warmth and taste of dark chocolate, bitter-sweet on her tongue had long become so deeply associated with the man beside her, that the hot beverage did little to reduce her growing ardor.  
He wrapped an arm around her. Wished her a happy anniversary.

“Two months.”

“Yes.”

She finished her chocolate and placed it on the table in front of her. “They’ve been rather lovely, these two months, don’t you think?’

He placed his mug beside hers, before covering her mouth with his own. The _yes,_ he murmured came out a muffle against her lips.

He pulled her legs to drape across his own as she tugged at the front of his shirt. His teeth grazed her bottom lip and she whimpered. She moved to straddle his lap, but he pulled back and stood up quickly, foiling her plans of seduction. She scowled at him as he stood before her, his breath heavy.

“Wait right there.”

She opened her mouth to respond but he was gone in a flash. He returned a moment later and retreated to the other side of the room where he was putting a record on in the corner. His fingers made quick work of positioning the needle, and she saw him close his eyes as a crackle resonated through the room.

A woman's voice, clear and deep, began to sound. Tears sprung to Hermione’s eyes.  
She stood up and made her way to him as he turned to face her. She swallowed. “Is it…?”

“Yes.” He gave her a smug smile. “Dance with me?” His hand reached out and she took it. She was reminded of a night like this one, a night that seemed so very long ago, with the same man, the same song, and the same glow of the moon. The heat of his body radiated through the fabric of her summer dress, and the thumb of his right hand rubbed gently at the back of her hand.

“How did you find it?” He could feel the whisper of her breath against his lips.

“I searched a dozen muggle record shops.” She kissed him then, long and slow, all sweetness and heat.

“Remus Lupin,” she murmured, “you’re a romantic.”

“Am I now? And are you complaining?” He smiled at her, crinkles springing up around his eyes making him look, by some strange contradiction, younger than he was.

She shook her head. “Never!”

He twirled them around, bewitched by the way her skirt flared out when she turned and the way her hair rebelled in the firelight; every wild, escaped strand made visible to the eye. He pulled her close to him and bent his head to trail kisses past her ear and down her cheek. He felt her shiver in his arms as his roughened cheek met hers.

“I have thought about that night, perhaps more than any other.” He whispered the words against her ear; a confession, a declaration, a rush of breath.

“Me too.”

He pressed his forehead against hers as he moved them to a mere sway. “I love you. I loved you then, and I love you now.”

She beamed. She never tired of the way those specific words sounded coming from his lips. They brought promise and sweetness and something else; something she could not name that made her want to squirm and feel is hands and eyes on her. “I love you too.”

The feeling of his warm hands on her back and the feeling of his breath and the blaring saxophone behind them made her head spin. She gripped his shirt, and thought about the summer evening before the war, when she had been struck dizzy for the first time, grounded only by her fist in his shirt and his hips pinning hers to Grimmauld Place’s kitchen counter. 

His forehead rested against hers. Her eyes closed as she played with the hair at his nape. She thought of Ginny and her rally to aid her friend in the seduction of the man before her. She smiled a little, and looked down to the floor where she stood on her tiptoes in a slow sway, her white sandals providing a contrast to his dark oxfords.

“Remus?” a whisper, just loud enough to be heard over the fading music.

“Yes, love?”

“Are you going to ask me to stay?” She raised her eyes to meet his. He blanched only for a moment.

He stroked her cheek. “Would you like me to?”

She nodded. “It would be rather rude of me to invite myself.”

The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Hermione…” he kissed her cheek, her nose, the corner of her mouth, all so lightly she thought she would tumble to the floor in desperation. “Will you stay?”

“Yes. _Yes._ ”

In a flash, the tenderness was gone, his hands ran over her form, trembling, touching, frantic to grasp her should she disappear. Any control he had previously practiced when she had been on his couch, faded, and the passion in his hands and his mouth made Hermione moan against his lips. They stumbled about the living room, unwilling to untangle themselves until they backed into his desk, the corner digging into Hermione’s thigh. “Ow!”

“Ah, shite, sorry. Suppose we better look where we’re going.” He chuckled a little but his eyes grew dark again when he watched her rub the spot on her back thigh that had been bumped. Before she could laugh at their folly, he removed her hand and replaced it with his own, rubbing the spot as he looked down into her eyes. “Alright?”

“ _Yes._ ” The feel of his hand on a place he had not touched before made her breathless, and the sight of his gentle and roughened hand, just barely hidden under the hem of her dress made her mouth hang open slightly as if she were waiting for words to come out. But no words came, and in an effort to avoid the chance of her clumsy desire embarrassing her more, she pulled him forward, out of the parlor, into the kitchen, down the hallway and into the room she was fairly certain was his bedroom. The door opened and the light flickered on, and she turned around to see him shove his hands in his pockets.

“I’ve never been in your room,” she murmured as she looked around. It was clean and relatively tidy save for the suit jacket in the corned that had found a home draped over the chair in the corner. Windows lined two walls, and the black sky peaked out from behind the cornflower blue curtains.

“No, I suppose you haven’t.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“I like it.”

“I’m glad.” He took a step towards her. “Are you, ah—on the um—”

“Potion?” she nodded emphatically and despite her embarrassment, smiled a little at the rising color in his cheeks.

He let out a breath. “Good. That’s good.”

He pulled her to him as her arms went up and around his neck. He presses his forehead to hers and admired the black lashes that flitted above her honey-colored eyes.

“Are you nervous?”

She bit her lip. “No, not much.”

“I am.”

She laughed a little then, her forehead rolling slightly against his. “What? Why?”

“Well, it’s been a while since I did this particular ah, -- _dance,_ and I’ve certainly never done it with anyone I’ve had such strong feelings for. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

“Remus…” She pressed her mouth to his, and when he was nearly lost in the feel of her tongue, he felt her hand slide down his shoulders to unbutton his shirt, and his chest suddenly grew tight.

He had scars. He had grown so used to them, so much so that he rarely considered them. They were, put simply, the part of his condition that bothered him the least. But standing in front of the woman he loved as she worked the buttons on his shirt, he suddenly found himself caring very much.

He looked away as she peeled the white linen from his shoulders. He felt her warm fingertips trace the outline of pink keloid, and he nearly grew cross and told her he didn’t want sympathy, not from her, not then, but he looked down just in time to watch as she pressed her mouth to the pink flesh, kissing along the faded gash. When she lifted her eyes to meet his, big and brown and with pupils like saucers, he let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He pulled her face to meet his, kissing her hot, and hungry, and full of intent.

Her hands ran across his back. She felt the scars there too, and while she hated the pain they had caused him, she pushed the thought aside, desperately focused on the way the raised lines highlighted the muscles in his shoulders, and back, and arms. Feeling and seeing him so completely made her blush, and she was grateful his face was safely buried in her neck, kissing and nipping and licking.. She felt his hands run down her back, finding the zipper to her sun dress and easing it down. Her body would be bared to him and she worried he would find fault in it. She wished her legs were longer, and her breasts larger, but her thoughts were interrupted when the dress fell to her feet and she heard him let out a ragged, breathy moan as he ever so gently touched her bare waist, running his fingers up one hip to her ribcage.

He lifted her up, placed her on the bed, and crawled over her. His trousers had become painfully tight and he instinctually pressed his desire against her. _Not yet._

“Say the word. Say the word and I’ll stop.” It was an oath he murmured as a thumb swiped across her cheek.

She pulled him back to her, lifted her hips to meet his. “Remus Lupin, don’t you dare.” He let out a breath of laughter, soft, and barely audible. He might have been able to manage more if he wasn’t so painfully hard, if he wasn’t trying so desperately to come in his pants like a first year. He reached behind her to unclasp her bra, and cursed himself when he had difficulty doing it with one hand, proof perhaps, of how long it had been since he’d encountered such a challenge.

“Help?” She raised herself up of the bed to aid him in his struggles, but her offer seemed to make his fingers defter, albeit more determined.

“No, no, I’ve got it.”

Finally, he managed it, and tossed the wicked thing off somewhere beyond the bed. Her knickers were next and he pulled them down her legs, the navy-blue fabric lost beneath his sheets.  


His touch was not where she expected it. He cupped her cheek, and while she saw his eyes travel down her naked form, it was her own eyes he finally settled on, gazing into them. 

“You are beautiful,” he whispered softly before he kissed her mouth, and her cheek, her jaw, and her neck. “My beautiful, brilliant Hermione.”

She wrapped herself around him, relishing the feel of her bare chest against his. She could feel the firmness of his desire between them, and she arched against it as his mouth opened against her own, a frenzy of tongue and teeth and lips. His kisses moved down, lingering over the scar on her collarbone from the Department of Mysteries. One hand cupped her breast, and his lips found the the other his tongue proving to be an even match for his clever hands. Her back arched, and her fingers threaded themselves through his hair, pulling him closer. Wet kisses trailed down her stomach. A kiss was placed on one hip bone, and then the other.

He raised his head, “Alright?” she nodded, growing very aware of how aroused she had become, causing her cheeks to again be painted pink. He spread her thighs, and her eyes flitted about the room, suddenly unsure of where she ought to look.

A kiss was placed on the inside of one thigh. The other received the same slow, agonizing treatment. Part of her screamed to clamp her legs shut in embarrassment, the other part begged her to spread her thighs farther, in the hopes that he would kiss her where she burned the most. The contradiction of emotions left her all but frozen until she felt his hot breath graze her heat. She raised her head to tell him he needn’t do the thing she was now certain he intended to do, but before she could, her head was thrust back against his pillows as he planted a soft kiss on the center of her sex. Her self-consciousness threatened to spike again as she thought of the wetness between her legs, and how he was currently becoming rather acquainted with it in a way that both embarrassed her and thrilled her. His tongue followed where his lips had been, slowly licking up her slit, before he kissed her again. His tongue teased her entrance and then moved up to trace the little bud of nerves so desperate for his attention. Her breath came short and fast as she struggled to gather some sense of control, but it was a fruitless effort. She found she cared rather less than she thought she would. In her ecstasy, she heard him moan between her legs, a deep, guttural sound that made her gasp his name.

 

 _Dear Merlin, she was exquisite._ Never has he had such a woman in his bed, so sweet, and so lovely. He raised his eyes to steal a glance at her, cheeks flushed and hair a mess against his pillows. Her hands still gripped the sheets and her eyes were screwed shut. His name fell from her lips again, followed by a please, and he spread her legs open farther, kissed her there again, circling his tongue around the little spot at the top of her sex. Her cries became louder and he watched as her chest rose and fell. He sucked at the spot at the top of her sex until he felt her tremble.

She found herself thrust of the edge of cliff, and a release pure, white, and hot washed over her. From far away she heard her shout of release and felt her back arch, almost painfully as she rode out her pleasure. When her trembling stopped, she found her lover still licking and kissing, helping her down from her crest, and seemingly pushing her towards another one. He removed himself from between her legs and kissed his way up her body, finding her mouth and teasing her tongue with his own before breathlessly pulling away.

“Alright?” He smiled as she swallowed and nodded, her eyes wild and bright. She pulled him close and attentively sneaked a hand between them, finding his desire. 

Her shy hand nearly proved a worthy match for his self control, and he let out a hiss into her shoulder. As her eyes found his, she murmured against his lips “show me,” and he did. He took her little hand in his, and showed her how he liked to be touched. He could see the eagerness in her eyes as she learned the feel of him, and for a moment, she seemed a student again; elated at the thought of trying something new and excelling at it. He almost laughed, but he kissed her instead, nibbling at her lip as her strokes became surer.

The feel of him in her hand, softer and larger than she had imagined, made her squirm a bit beneath him, her own arousal once again heavy between her legs. Suddenly her hand was ripped away.

“I won’t last,” he told her. She didn’t know if he was praising her efforts or merely being shy but honest about his limitations, but either why, it made her smile. She felt his hand slip past the thatch of curls between her thighs, and she sighed when he stroked her. One long, talented finger slipped inside her, and her muscles flexed around it. She raised her hips ever so slightly, silently begging for something, anything, more. His middle finger joined the first, gently stretching her. She moved against his hand and he pumped his fingers in and out of her, once, twice, three times, before she was left empty and unfulfilled. She let out a frustrated cry and pulled him to her. “You’re certain?” he murmured against her lips.

“Yes, Yes, Remus please…” She was breathless beneath him, and he stilled for a moment. He focused on her warmth, her body soft beneath his. Felt the pulse of her heart beat pressed up against his own. He took in her eyes and the freckles across her nose, he lifted her chin, and kissed her deep and slow. He nudged her legs apart, and took himself in hand. He buried his face in her hair as he pressed into her.

There wasn’t pain exactly, more a feeling of being stretched as her muscles accommodated the new invasion. The moment she made a sharp inhale of breath, he was pressing kisses to her forehead, apologizing.

“Are you—are you alright?” He faltered a bit, the pleasure of her surrounding him clouding his mind.

The worry in his voice made her heart swell. She murmured a yes against his lips, and raised her hips, indicating that he could move.

It was slow at first, and gentle, although she expected nothing less. She watched the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he held his weight above her and the way his eyes fluttered closed briefly as he sighed, his head falling forward. She pressed her mouth to his brow, and when he raised his head again he wasted no time in seizing her mouth. She felt as if there was not a part of her that was not entwined with him and she shivered a little, relishing the idea of being so merged. Their foreheads pressed together has he continued to move, and their warm breaths mingled with unspoken cries in-between kisses. Any initial discomfort passed quickly, and Hermione found her breath quickening, and her muscles tightening. She felt his hand on her hip as he lifted her leg to curve around his back. He slipped deeper inside of her, filling her completely, and stretching her in the most blissful way. She cried out.

“There?” All she could do was nod frantically, the _yes_ she wanted to give him lodged in her throat. Her arms pulled him closer, she felt his muscles, and his scars, and the knobs of his spine. 

He began to move faster. His hand was strong on her hip, and he bent his head to press feather light kisses across her collar bone. He hurried his pace as a groan rumbled through his chest, his hips rolling into hers, deep and sure, and more frenzied than before. Her eyes squeezed shut.

“Remus…” she tilted her head back and let out a moan she cared not to suppress.

He struggled for breath. “Yes love, just like that. Can you come for me again, darling?”

“I...” she couldn’t quite finish the thought, because his hand had travelled down between them, and with a firm but tender touch of his fingers, she was arching against him again, crying out as a second release washed over her. The words of his endearments rang in her ears, and his kisses were warm and sweet on her lips. Her own voice seemed farther away than his, and as she came to the surface, gasping for air, she heard her name on his lips as he finally came undone, spilling inside her, strange, but not unwelcome.

He collapsed above her, catching his weight on his arms as to not crush her. His head dropped forward and rested on her shoulder. They lay there for a moment, all limbs and twisted sheets. He felt her warmth, her breath, her heartbeat. She felt his.

He rolled off of her and pulled her to him, her head rested comfortably on his chest. He brushed a few matted strands of hair from her forehead. “Are you alright?”

“I’m perfect.” She beamed at him, cupped his cheek and kissed him deeply. She hoped it was enough to convince him that she had no regrets, that she was happy; that he made her happy. She looked to find some sort of anguish or guilt in his face, but he was smiling at her, the crinkles around his eyes winking at her as she gazed up at him. She brought a hand to his face and traced the skin there lightly.

“ _Must_ you touch my wrinkles?” he chuckled, but made no move to remove her hand.

“They’re not _wrinkles._ They’re laugh lines. They’re not there because you’re old, because you’re _not,_ they’re there because you’re smiling.” Her fingers traced down his cheek and he grabbed them and brought them to his lips, kissing them softly. “I like them,” she whispered. “They make you look happy.”

“I am happy.” Her hand had come to rest on his chest, and he continued to trace light lines over her the backs of her fingers.

“I’m glad,” she kissed his chin. “I’d be rather offended if you weren’t.”

“Are you? Happy, I mean?”

“You can’t be serious! You just pulled the most atrocious sounds from my throat, not just once, but twice, and you have to _ask_ if I’m content?”

He relaxed, his worries assuaged, only to give her a smug grin. “I suppose it was twice, wasn’t it?”

She turned crimson and buried her head against his chest. “For the sake of my dignity, you could fish for complements in a subtler manner, you know.”

He laughed again, and brought her face up to his own, peppering it with kisses. “You were exquisite, my love. You are exquisite wherever you are, and in whatever you do. I must say, however, that having you in my bed has led me to have a whole new appreciation for the word.” 

He touched her cheek, still tinged pink from recent exertion, or from simply being unaccustomed to receiving compliments of such a kind. “I adore you.”

She returned the sentiment, but not before caressing once again the side of his face, her fingers running over the lines by his eyes and one of the small, faded scars on his temple. When she had touched him to her heart’s content, and he likewise; when their chatter at last turned to shared yawns and drooping eyelids, he felt for his wand by the bedside table, and dimmed the lights until all was dark.

Remus closed his eyes and pulled her back close against him. She gave a happy sigh and he smiled into her hair, which managed to somehow take up the majority of space on two pillows. He pictured how she would look in the morning with the sun pouring through his windows and onto her sleeping form, wrapped in his arms and his dark blue sheets. Perhaps the sunlight would shine onto one of her bare shoulders, or perhaps the morning light would wake her before he even began to stir.

The night sky was clear, but black as pitch, and as Remus Lupin’s consciousness began to slip, he heard, and saw, and felt more than he had in some time. In the darkness, familiar voices called and familiar figures danced. There was a sound reminiscent of the whistle on the Hogwarts Express, and the gleeful call of _Moony_ echoing through the air. There was a woman’s laugh and man’s soft utterance of being proud of a son long grown. _So proud._ There was the woman he loved, and whether it was her figure he saw or her voice he heard he knew not. It was her presence he felt, and even as he drifted, his arm instinctually pulled her closer still. In the morning, he would wake to find her there, her back still pressed to his chest. The rest would be gone, and whether the whispers and ghosts had existed in the black of night or in the void of sleep behind his eyelids he would be uncertain. It would cause him no pain to wake and leave them behind, for they lingered like a scar on the back of one’s hand, once painful and angry, but since smooth and only a little raised.

There had been pain, but there had been beauty and goodness too, and best of all there was Hermione Granger. This love, this life, offered him happiness, and as the figures and voices of the past swirled about and faded in the dark, he reached out and seized it.

**Author's Note:**

> The song mentioned is "Blue Moon" sung by Jo Stafford, and the title is a reference to the Song "Moonlight Serenade" sung by Frank Sinatra.
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> Thank you to the lovely summers_honey_breath for her edits and wisdom.


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